


A Means of Communication

by black_hat_with_bells



Category: Star Trek RFP
Genre: M/M, violence within
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:22:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_hat_with_bells/pseuds/black_hat_with_bells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris needs to find another way to talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Means of Communication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ewinfic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ewinfic).



> From the prompt: a kiss with a fist is better than none.

Chris walked towards the studio, unaware that he was already in his role.

He swaggered across the pavement, the picture of a confident young man with places to go, places where he’d always be wanted. It was a nice idea, and something that he clung to during the day. He would forget about last night when he was reading this part of the script on the couch, clenching and unclenching his fists in anxiety. He’d forget running his hand through his hair like some bad motor memory. He’d forget only falling asleep at two in the morning, and he’d forget that he had taken a bottle of alcohol out of the cabinet to go through with this.

Oh right, that was probably why he forgot last night. He didn’t take a deep breath or pause when he reached the studio. He just walked right in, tossing his keys in the air and catching them with ease.

Rachel was a sweet girl, and she waved to him from across the room, a knowing look in her eyes. An hour later, they stood behind the cameraman, drinking their coffee in the early morning hours, trying not to trip on any wires, and waiting to shoot the scene. She was in a robe, the bra and underwear carefully concealed. She was also bright green.

He casually reached into the pocket of his robe and took out the gum. Making out with someone while having coffee breath wasn’t on his list of things to do.

Rachel stepped closer to him. “I hope you don’t mind looking like you’re making out with Kermit the Frog.”

“I think that show would have been more popular if there was a resemblance,” he joked. She was a little tipsy too, her motions exaggerated.

“Share?” she asked, holding out her green hand for some gum. He took pity on her and himself, and shared. The alcohol thing wasn’t a big deal. Some actors could turn off and on their bodies like a switch, and some needed some help with something else. It was weird, with everyone in the room watching. He knew some of these lines would make them laugh, and when he fell onto the floor and rolled under the bed when Zoe barged in, there’d be this stifled moment of comedy.

Only he was more worried about his body not turning on at all. He was more worried about looking like a self-conscious freshman than a guy. He was worried about giving something essential way, something that was his business.

Acting was about hiding just as much as it was about pushing yourself out there. James T. Kirk had all the lines ready, and had no hesitation.

And he couldn’t really see Rachel under him. He’d either laugh, or apologize for straddling her (they’d try many different positions until the director was satisfied). He’d become the role and try not to see them.

It was time. He followed her unto the set, tossing his robe to the side like Kirk would, and the room did laugh until it was serious.

He climbed up onto the bed with her and winked at her as they pressed their bodies together in front of the camera.

***

Turns out, Chris was really good at lying.

Which is what acting was. There was a lot of truth in it, living this story that is larger than life, but he was also lying his ass off. Sometimes—and this was nuts—he envied the connections Kirk made, or his decisions. It was surreal, re-watching those scenes from his place at the back of the table, making eye contact with the other actors in turn.

The cast was comfortable with each other because some things you go through could only make you friends and making mistakes that could be recorded pretty much forever and would go on Youtube was one of those things.

But how could it explain what he felt when he made out with women in bars or at parties? It was like going through the motions of the part, and he was lying very well. Didn’t matter if it was rough or gentle, first time or one of many. He felt the same, putting his hands up a girl’s shirt.

And it spread to other facets of his life. Talking to the grocer in the supermarket sounded like a lie. He didn’t mind, being confident and taking on life, but when he got home alone and wondered what it all meant, it did bother him how much off camera was like on camera.

But that’s what having a little time to relax was about, and with those words of infinite wisdom in his head, he took the alcohol out of the cabinet, once again ending his day by falling asleep on the couch.

 

“Ready to rumble tomorrow?” Chris asked, throwing himself in the seat besides Zach. The man was studying the script with all his attention. Usually, with the girls’ scenes, he doesn’t like to talk about what’s about to take place.

But with this, with fighting, it seemed like something someone should bring up.

 

“Actually, no,” was the reply. Okay, that was a little too blunt, and at first, he’s ready to rumble right there and then. He’s ready to be pissed, but before he could be: “I emailed you last night to talk about it,” Zach said in a softer tone, looking up at him from behind his glasses.

“I crashed early man,” Chris said, rubbing his knee. “I’m sorry.” Time to be a professional actor because this guy was all about being good on the set. “How did you want to approach the scene?”

“You’re about to leave in five minutes, and I’m about to start filming another scene in two.” But Chris didn’t feel as if he were being scolded. He took in the sincerity in Zach’s face and how casual he was, leaning back in his chair with his head tilted towards him, a warm look in his dark eyes. It was as if they had known each other forever. This was how Zach treated everyone: no one was made to feel like an outsider.

Chris wondered about that, too, but in truth, he didn’t know the guy really well. He did know that he had gone from being angry and offended and defensive to being relaxed, friendly, and comfortable in his own skin.

“My idea was to meet at my place…or yours, and rehearse. This scene is going to pack a punch, and it’ll go smoother if we are prepared.”

“My place is still trashed.” He rolled his script up in his hands as he spoke. Then blinked.

What had just come out of his mouth: a complete and total lie. He had no idea what he had just said that, where it had come from, or…well, he had a clue. He was sick of his house right now.

“You know what that means? You have to come over and trash mine, then.”

“Consider your house soon to be annihilated around…six?” Chris asked, always with the jokes.

“Sounds good.”

It did. He was aching for a distraction, and when he pulled out of the parking lot, he had a smile on his face.

***

At six, he Chris himself walking up the sidewalk, questioning whether he should be early or late. With Zach, he didn’t feel like it mattered, and that mattered enough to needle at him.

One thing that he absolutely didn’t need right now was a tense relationship with another cast member. The sky was that in-between color of twilight, and he was already tired. Maybe he was sick or something.

Zach opened the door before he could follow that train of thought too closely to the inevitable dead-end.

“Hey,” Chris offered, and got a bright smile in reply. Zach’s house was different from every other house in L.A. because it actually felt like a home. There were traces of a real person in here, with pictures and actual mail sitting on the banister. That was just crazy.

He smelled a rich aroma from the kitchen that immediately made his mouth water.

“I have some leftovers in the fridge. What some before we start to beat each other up?”

“As long as you don’t plan on hitting me in the stomach after, sure.”

“Don’t worry, I wait two hours before kicking people in the stomach.”

They laughed, and it didn’t feel like an effort.

Following the taller man down the hall, he saw one of his hats perched on the side of the fireplace mantel. No idea what that was doing there, but it reminded him of his initial impression of Zachary Quinto. Chris had been under the ‘school’ of thought (a school mostly composed of himself and him) that they were selling a brand. Kind of a broad-brand. No labels, no personalization. He was a chameleon, the all-American heartthrob (hopefully).

He sold the fact that he could fit and blend in any setting. Put the label on him, and he’ll roll with it. Zach stood out, and Chris had been mildly resentful. Very mildly, in a ‘what are you trying to prove’ way. He guessed the answer was ‘nothing’. And what was that?

Even now, he was wearing a tight purple, white-striped shirt that clung to his lean body. It both intrigued and irritated but he was over it. Really. It was none of his business, and he just had to do his own thing.

The kitchen looked like an actual kitchen with a grocery bag on the counter and there was a dog bowl in the very corner of the room. But wait: there was an actual dog in the room, not hidden away in someone’s bag or under a hedge in someone’s backyard.

This was madness.

“I hope you like spaghetti,” he said, opening up the fridge and waiting for the ‘that’s cliché’ moment.

“I’d like anything that was home-cooked at this point. Everything I have had has tasted too much like a specialty,” Chris replied, sticking his hands in his jean pockets and wondering where to sit. And then, randomly, wondering about gum.

***

“Okay, I’m ready,” Chris said, pretending to jog in place. “Where do you want to begin?”

The curtains were closed, and he felt like he could play around with this part a little more, push the boundaries. There wasn’t any audience to watch, so no harm, no foul.

“Page 11, line 312.”

“Got it. Kick my ass then.”

When Zachary Quinto opened his eyes, Chris lost his ability to breath. The look, this look, that came out of his eyes was possessive. Hot and cold: a remoteness. It’d be the emotional equivalent of burning alive, alone on a ship, in the depths of outer space. Fuck, he scared the hell out of Chris. The guy literally became this character, right with that loud obnoxious music playing outside, contained and methodical but angry. In the logistics of this character, Chris was an obstacle to be removed.

Disdain, great personal dislike, and disappointment would have been better. The message was you are insignificant and a waste of time. Chris wanted the everything else.

Especially the personal dislike.

At this, something inside of him leapt to the surface, and the script started to shake in his hands, crumpling under the force of his grip. Zach walked around the side of the couch, perfectly composed and completely out of place in the modern setting. He needed to penetrate that air of aloofness.

Suddenly he was digging in deep to his character’s state of mind. Sure, he was poking at the Vulcan for a ‘good’ reason, but god, he’d like to mess him up a little, get inside his mind. Prove him wrong, make him hurt. He’d like to own his reaction and cause it; he’d like to break that façade to pieces.

Soon, the lines didn’t need to be memorized as he tried to tear that bastard down. He wielded them like weapons, and he knew he was getting a little too into it. This was getting out of control.

Zach’s body shuddered as if under an internal assault when Chris jabbed with that line about his mother. That was the hook, and Chris kept pulling and pulling, feeling his face growing hot and his eyes starting to water.

In a tunnel, his heart pounding in his ears. Perfect tunnel vision as that man turned towards him because in this fight, they were the only two that existed.

Chris walked closer and closer, euphoric with his put-downs, until Zach lunged at him. He was one place and then next, he was on his ass with the back of his skull crying uncle.

Mild-mannered Quinto had him pinned to his nice carpet, breathing his scent—wait what—and staring at him like he was going to burn his life down. Like he was going to dismantle him and take souvenirs. His arm was cutting off Chris’s arm, and the legitimate fear and worry that was curling up inside of him was not as unreal as how it felt to have an elbow in his stomach and then…

Just pinned down to the ground with someone holding you there. Someone on top of you, taking control of this situation. Chris wanted to laugh because all the times that he’d tried to keep it under control, but he was distracted by the reaction.

That reaction. It scared him, and he had to think on how embarrassing this was in order to hide it. He tried to roll away.

Then Zach just turned it off, sitting up on his knees and running a hand through his hair.

“Did I hurt you? I meant to push you onto the couch, but I think I missed my target.”

“Uh, I don’t think you missed the…target,” he panted. Always with the jokes. Zachary tilted his head, hands on his knees, still looking concerned. “Those actors on Heroes shouldn’t have to do much acting with you. That was some scary…scary shit.”

Not as scary as it’d be if the man looked down right now. But finally, he was calming down, faking—acting as if the air had been knocked out of him.

“Are you all right?”

He stood up and after some hesitation, offered Chris a hand up. By now, it was fine. Only it wasn’t. Chris took the offered hand in a brotherly gesture, not taking his hand away too quickly.

“I’m good. Did you think it was good? I mean, the scene,” he rambled.

“Hmm.” Zach bit his lip, brow furrowed in concentration. Chris started a mantra in his head of every negative thought and feeling he’d ever had because he still felt weird. He still felt too close. “I think we can draw out some of the moments between the lines. Do you want to try that?”

Chris nodded. He couldn’t exactly leave. That was a random moment in time, and he had to get his shit together.

They kept rehearsing for two hours, offering advice to each other on other scenes as well, but Chris had toned his efforts down. He only injected the bare minimum of emotion. Zach remained at his intensity; in fact, he increased it two fold, his body becoming something untouchable.

Which only made the situation worse.

Chris just mimicked his previously stunned expression, and that seemed to work. Leaving Zach’s was a mixed bag: he wanted to get out of there, but he knew once he was out, he’d analyze this to death.

And he didn’t want to.

Eventually he had to leave, and as he had predicted, he turned the scene that had really taken place played over and over again in his head.

It didn’t mean anything. Really.

***

On the set, they film out of order one day, and Chris watched out of the corner of his eyes as Zach makes-out with Zoe, followed the path of his hands along her body.

Passionately. Damn, he couldn’t tell the difference anymore, and on the tenth reshoot, he didn’t have to act uncomfortable; he was uncomfortable.

And there was a slight kernel of irritation there, too. It was similar to finding an underground tunnel in one’s home, a tunnel that you always knew was there but was still surprised at finding. Like from another life.

This new-familiar tunnel was pretty damn dark, and at first, his mind skipped and messed up the lines.

His eyes followed those hands, and it felt weirdly like he was the one being touched. There was heat under his ears, and behind his eyes, and his chest was tight. Sweat was gathering on the back of his leg. The light was too bright, and the camera was in his face, zooming in for the close up.

Look away, look down.

Reshoot, reshoot, snapsnap of the film slate.

He was angry, and he didn’t know why.

***

Finally shooting the fight scene, Chris realized something big.

He was angry, but he was angry at his co-star. He didn’t know why he was, either, but pacing around this fake set, he wanted…he wanted to make this tough on Zach, he wanted to make it different from those other scenes, completely different.

He didn’t know why he was so angry, but all that mattered was that he was angry.

So, when Zach lunged, he brought his knee up just as his back hit the foam console.

“Shii,” Zach hissed profoundly and very un-Spock like. Chris held up his hands. He had just hit the upper thigh, nothing big deal.

“Man, I’m sorry. Damn, uh…”

“It’s okay,” he said, but to Chris’s horror, his eyes flickered up to his face, a flash of dislike taking root there.

Chris was humiliated but he didn’t look away. He just looked back, the challenge clear.

Re-shoot, re-shoot, re-shoot.

Zach pushed him harder and even the plastic was starting to hurt, and Chris would struggle and push him back. To save the scene (sure), Zach held him down, the anger real in his face. (Has anyone truly made this guy mad before? Surely not a lot of people, with the real deal? Because this was real. Hah.) The man was taking it personally, okay-all right, fine. Did Chris care?

A resounding no.

Shit, he’s just acting.

And with a camera that catches everything, he’d better lie his ass off.

***

“Hey, Chris. Got a moment?”

‘Chris’ actually translated into an edgy and demanding ‘Pine’.

And yes Chris had a moment, but not for him. “Can you talk while we walk? I’ve got some stuff to do.”

Zach grabbed his arm, stopping him cold. He should pull away, no, jerk his arm away. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

There was a look of betrayal on Zach’s face. There was a look of hurt on Zach’s face. Chris had put it there.

He didn’t feel so satisfied anymore.

They stood there in the half vacant parking lot. He had no clue as to what to do, and he couldn’t look down. His neck felt cemented, his next actions centered entirely on the other man’s.

“After you get your stuff done, come over. We need to talk.”

“That’s uh, not going to happen tonight,” Chris said slowly. “I have no idea when I’ll be free. I’ll get my act together tomorrow.”

Zach let him go, and Chris felt his eyes burning a hole through his shoulder blades as he walked away.

***

The whole of Hollywood seemed to say ‘There’s nothing here for you’.

Chris was inclined to agree. After all his work…he was inclined to agree.

He wanted to scream and scream and never stop but that wasn’t what guys did. That wasn’t what anyone did.

So, he just agreed in resignation and hit the next couple of parties where nobody was alone and everyone was lonely.

***

The fighting scene was finally a wrap.

Chris had toned it down considerably, let Quinto push him over the console with this plastic control digging into his back, and let him suffocate him just a little. And that’s a wrap.

Everyone clapped after it was done. Everyone except for Chris…

And Zach.

***

“Pine.”

Something electric shot up his back, and he wiped his eyes. He had known Zach was following him down the side street between the two studio buildings.

“Still don’t have a moment,” he called over his shoulder.

“You haven’t been in a real fight before, have you?”

Now he turned around, puzzled, and saw Zach looming behind him. Actually looming. He’s a pretty tall guy, come to think of it.

“I’ve had my share,” he protested, moving his duffel bag to his other shoulder in a show of casualness. “Why, didn’t like my interpretation of a fight?”

“Be serious. A real fight, or a kid fight? A real fight with blood and pain and black eyes, or the kid fight which is all pushing and laughing afterwards…. Which have you been in?”

He swallowed hard.

“The latter,” he admitted. “And this is relevant because?”

“Put your bag down.”

“How about no?”

“Put it down.”

For some reason, he did, tossing it to the side. “And you, have you been in a real fight?” Chris asked because that’s the obvious question.

Zach smiled at him. A not-entirely-nice-or-rational smile.

“What do you think?”

Chris suddenly didn’t have to ask over what.

“I just…” Sorry wouldn’t cut it. “I guess everything seems so fucking fake.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just thought we’d bring something real to it. Between us.” He paused. “Because our characters-.”

“Was it a trust issue? I wouldn’t actually hurt you, you know. I do scenes like that all the time with the Heroes cast, and they’d tell you that I never-.”

“I wouldn’t care if you did,” Chris blurted out. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

Zachary crossed his arms, taking in the sight of him. Chris threw up his arms.

“Never mind. Forget it.”

“This was our last day for awhile. We have a week off.”  
Thanks for the confirmation, Chris thought, though he didn’t feel like he could say that. He merely nodded instead, putting his hands on his hips. It was getting dark out, and there was a hot summer stillness in the air that was driving him crazy.

“So. No hits on the face. I wouldn’t want to risk a broken nose. It wouldn’t fit Sylar’s character because of the regeneration ability.”

“What?”

“It wouldn’t make sense for a broken nose not to be fixed. After that part’s done…” Zach shrugged, “Maybe. We’ll see how it goes.”

His voice had gone one octave lower, and Chris felt that fear again. Or was it fear at all? His mind was wound tight enough to snap, and he didn’t know what was so wrong with him that he felt like screaming again.

He clenched his fists and visualized the tantalizing possibility: to share what he had been bottling up for years with someone else and have them complete accept it. Even more tempting: have them completely understand it. Hell, with sympathy or empathy or whatever.

“I don’t think I could really fight you.”

“I trust you,” Zach said simply, taking off his glasses and slipping them in the jacket pocket. Then he tossed his jacket on top of Chris’s duffel bag.

The sound of the fabric landing on the ground was barely noticed pasted the ringing in his ears. He didn’t deserve Zachary’s trust. He’d done nothing to deserve it. He’d actively worked not to have it, to toss it to the ground and stomp on it.

Dear God. A part of him balked, but another was just made of a swirling mass that’d be eating him from the inside out. Like a cavity would a healthy looking tooth, slowly eroding it away. Being alone had made him inward in this bright and in-a-constant-holiday world. Being alone at some special Christmas holiday except every gossip rag in the world told on you, and kinda wanted you to be alone.

Wanted you to. Chris couldn’t say that he missed his family because that wasn’t the kind of thing guys said. He couldn’t say how much this part was stressing him out for fear of blowing it completely because he’s a man. He can’t say that one time he woke up with his pillow wet and felt like a complete wuss-baby because fuck, he’s a man.

Shit. His teeth clicked together at the sudden influx of pictures in his imagination. Embarrassing and personal, it was like Zach could see it, and, and, who was he to see that?

Zach opened his arms and waited, a serene and kind expression on his face, and the emotion inside of him swelled up like a tide, hitting his veins like acid. God, he needed this, he needed to get it all out of him so badly.

Zach—this guy who owned him nothing, who looked very fragile in his thin black shirt—was saying ‘Talk to me’. And all his words gathered up in his fists: he could literally feel them there.

“Hit me back, okay. You’ve got to promise,” Chris said, shrugging off his own jacket.

“Don’t worry about that,” Zach said, a hint of smirk on his lips.

And Chris charged forward. This was scary as hell because uh, haven’t hit anyone for real before in his life. First punch was on the left shoulder, and it made this lame ‘slap’ sound.

Right there and then, he was about to call it quits, come back to reality, but then Zach punched him. Right in the gut. A roll of pain followed a mysterious absence of pain (a curious just numb ball in his stomach). Lights burned through his head when he couldn’t breath for a good minute or so, and he bent over, panting and clutching his stomach.

He saw the tip of Zach’s very bright and blurry shoes.

Everything was blurry and back to basics. The only thing he had to concentrate on was the pain that was very honest. The net in his head was cinders, and there was an elation that he held on to for dear life and let it drag him up.

He gasped for air, breathed it in like it was the first breath he had ever taken.

“Pulled your…punch.”

“No, you fell on my fist.”

“You asshole,” Chris said, and thank god, he could hit. The barrier had been broken, and he punched Zach in the gut. Zach moved with the hit, and landed a good one on his shoulder. Too good, too weighed down with past hurts.

Let me tell you about the time someone really hurt me.

His shoulder throbbed and he bit back a string of curses.

He answered with, let me make you forget how you were hurt by those who don’t care.

Their fight wasn’t choreographed, and they were moving so quickly, their feet scuffling along the gravel and there were just sounds in the distance, sounds coming from them. He pressed against Zach’s solid body, and the guy had him in this headlock, and he was kneeing him.

He struggled to touch inch of muscle he could, taken the secrets hidden under composure, and so did Zach.

His back was knotting up, and he was choking out the truth, and he wanted the truth back. He hit and punched and kicked, safe in having to follow the motion. Black, blue, red, white, yellow, flashed behind his eyes when Zach hurt him, giving him release from his life story.

The slaps of skin on skin ended when Zach held up a hand. But he didn’t have to: Chris’s legs folded up and he fell to the ground. He didn’t move: he lay there spread eagle, a sweating, pulsing mess on the cooling ground that held him. He felt clean, purged, and good.

Good.

There wasn’t a trace of anything sour in his soul. The pain kept it away. He kept count of his heartbeat with some fascination.

“Damn,” he breathed out.

Zach knelt besides him, staring off into the distance for a moment before turning his attention to him. Like a friend.

“Better?” he asked, and touched his arm, gently over the throbbing. He must have felt like he had been jogging in a rainstorm.

“I feel like vomiting.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Zach moved to lift him up and turn him over to the side, but Chris shook his head. “Give me a-.”

“Moment.”

They laughed and it hurt like a bitch. Chris squinted up at him. “You okay?”

Zach lifted up his shirt and Chris saw the beginnings of purple and yellow on his muscle stomach. He reached out and touched the bruise curiously. That was from him. He had a few himself, and what was more amazing was that Zach didn’t flinch away from him.

All out in the open.

“I’ve been better. Unfortunately.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, understanding. It occurred to him how much trust he had placed on Zach’s shoulders. In fact, he had just dumped the fate of his career in his hands. Hell, this could have been staged. Like ‘pay me your shitload of money or I’ll go to the tabloids about how you assaulted me’.

Oh. Yeah.

“There’s no cameras in between here,” Zach told him, winking at him. It was an afterthought but still…

Chris didn’t know what to say. He had had Zach’s career—and life— in his hands too, and he hadn’t messed it up. He hadn’t. It was like learning he was a human being who had a say in how things would go, and that he wasn’t the worst thing to happen to the universe. Zach stood up slowly and offered his hand. Chris didn’t hesitate to take it. There are some things that just make you friends and apparently beating the shit out of each other in an alley was one of them.

Who knew?

“You still haven’t trashed my house yet,” Zach reminded him.

“How about tomorrow? Tonight, I’ve got to go home and piss blood.”

“Hm, that’s the same thing I’m going to do.”

They laughed. Again, loved regretting it. The Hollywood lights were turning on in the distance. After the comfortable, tired silence between them, with his knuckles a running commentary on his own power and his own self-control, Zach nodded.

“Tomorrow sounds good.”

It did.


End file.
